Keep a song in your heart

Our local PBS station airs The Lawrence Welk Show every Saturday night at 7 p.m.  I've started watching it.  In fact, I look forward to it.  I spent years laughing at my mother for watching Lawrence Welk.  I suffered through it growing up when visiting Granny, who never missed a show.  Now I watch it because it reminds me of them.

Tastes just like chicken

Friday is usually pizza night at our house.  Dad’s not a big fan, but not having to cook on Friday is a treat for me.  Yesterday, I was lucky enough to get off work early.  Sometimes in the summer, Tom gets the urge to start the weekend early and I guess he feels guilty leaving us all at the office so we all get to leave early.  I put my time to good use and hit the grocery store, which is on the other side of town from the pizza place.

I didn’t want to go back out after taking the groceries home.  I decided it would be nice to cook supper when I wasn’t in a huge rush for a change.  It’s not unusual for me to walk in the door, turn on the oven, and start mixing batter for cornbread before I even change clothes.

I fixed pork chops in mustard sauce.  Earlier in the week, I’d made chicken cacciatore and the recipe was still sitting on the counter.  Dad must have seen it because after he’d practically finished his pork chop, he asked if it was chicken cacciatore.  “That’s a pork chop,” I said in disbelief.  “We had chicken cacciatore earlier in the week.”  He just shook his head.  I don’t know why I worry about what I’m going to cook. 

Today we had chicken with mushrooms in a creamy sauce.  After Dad had eaten a few bites, I looked across the table and told him, “That’s chicken, in case you were wondering.”  “Not a pork chop today, huh?” he laughed.

I made egg salad for supper.  Dad and Dillon both love egg salad.  The Yankees are playing baseball, so I told Dad he was welcome to take his out to his room and eat in front of the tv.  I even opened the door for him since both his hands were full.  “I’ll probably fall flat on my face,” he groused.  There are 3 steps down from the kitchen into the garage.  “Please don’t.  You’d break my glass,” I warned him.  My courtesy only extends so far.

“I baked a chocolate cake this afternoon.  It’s on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator,” I told Dad before he exited to watch the baseball game.  “Well, thank you,” he said in pleased surprise.  “It’s to share,” I continued.  He looked puzzled.  “I’m just warning you that you won’t be eating it alone.  It’s for both of us.”  “I don’t know about that,” he answered. 

“Be thankful for what you’ve got,” I cautioned him.  “I could have just not told you it was something you could eat and kept it all for myself.”  “What do you think about that, Dillon?” he asked, shaking his head.  Dillon was busy licking the egg salad bowl, thankful for what he had.  Dillon always appreciates whatever food I put in front of him.  Dad could learn a lot from my dog.

Some assembly required

In Baltimore, Dad had an old office chair that we sometimes used at the dining room table.  It had arms and it swiveled so it was perfect for older adults with limited strength in their arms.  First, it was for Granny, then for Mom.  The chair didn’t get included in the things Dad brought to NC.  Perhaps he thought he’d never be the one to need it?

He was wrong.  He’s now the one who grabs hold of the table to pull himself up or lower himself into the chair.  I remember being scolded as a child for putting my elbows on the table or pressing down on the table leaf.  Dad said the table wasn’t meant to take my weight.  At the time, I’m sure I weighed less than he does now.  After watching him pull on the table for months, I decided the issue needed to be addressed.  I like my table and have no desire to have to try and glue the legs back on after he wrenches on it one time too many.

I finally asked if he’d brought the office chair with him.  I was 99% certain he hadn’t, but wanted to confirm the fact.  No, he’d given it away or sold it at auction, for pennies on the dollar I’m sure, to avoid paying to move it.  Which would have cost less than buying a new one that won’t be nearly as well-built and sturdy.

I suggested he needed to start looking for a new one.  He looked confused.  When I pointed out that he was using the table to get up and down, he claimed he hadn’t been aware he was doing that.  I thought he might be able to find an old office chair at the auctions he goes to.  Instead, he brought one from Staples.

Naturally, it was delivered in a box, some assembly required.  He’d already started working on it before I got home.  He was muttering that it wasn’t that easy to assemble, big surprise, and swearing that one of the bolt holes was installed at an angle which made it impossible to secure the back of the chair.  No matter what he’s trying to assemble, Dad always claims a part is missing or defective.  It’s usually his brain that isn’t functioning properly, not the equipment.

The back of the chair was bolted to the arms and the seat.  So there was up upper and lower bolt on each side.  He had screwed in the upper bolt first.  The lower bolt wasn’t going in easily.  I was instructed to push down on the top of the chair back.  He claimed I was pushing forward not down.  I finally pointed out that with the top bolt already screwed in, pushing down wasn’t going to accomplish anything.  There was no way to move the cushion down; the bottom could only slide forward or backward, not up or down.  He couldn’t seem to wrap his head around that concept.

I suggested putting the chair on its side instead of trying to work with it upright.  He looked skeptical, but finally conceded we could try it that way.  We made better progress after that and finally got it done in time for supper.  It was like sitting across from the chairman of the board.  He’d brought a high-backed chair that would be right at home at the head of a conference table.

I came home the next day to discover that he wanted me to help him load the table in the car.  He’d been back to Staples and found a chair with a lower back that he liked better.  It was being delivered the next day.  “I suppose we’ll have to assemble that one too?” I asked.  “It won’t be nearly as hard,” he assured me.  Right.

Putting the original chair back in the car involved moving my car out of the garage and getting the chair through the door and down the steps.  I wanted to carry it down sideways so we’d both have an arm to hold onto, Dad insisted it go out facing forward so we had to grab onto the cushion and back.  Leave it to him to do everything the hard way.  We still managed to get it loaded up and get back inside before the thunderstorm hit. 

The second chair presented its own challenges, but we did get it assembled.  It’s an improvement over the first.  It sits better and the low back is less of an obstruction.  For some reason, the arms wiggle a bit.  Dad claims it’s not a result of the way he installed them.  I can’t believe it’s supposed to be like that, but as long as it doesn’t impair his ability to get up and down, it doesn’t matter to me.

I pointed out that after all of this experience, he could apply at Staples to assemble their office furniture.  He informed me that they will assemble the chairs but it costs $8.  It would have been money well spent in my opinion.  Of course, I still don’t understand why he didn’t simply bring the chair they already had with him when he moved.  Our brains just don’t function on the same wavelength.

We have the Olympic spirit

As I understand it, in ancient times when the Olympic Games were held, conflicts between competing city/states were suspended during the competition.  The Olympics have provided a similar respite for Dad and me.  We’ve found a topic of conversation that doesn’t involve disagreement, beyond our fascination with different sports. 

Dad doesn’t understand why there is an equestrian competition and no baseball.  Equestrian makes more sense to me than rhythmic gymnastics.  There were chariot races in the Ancient Olympics.  I seriously doubt the original Olympians would have considered dancing around with ribbons and hoops to be a sport.  I’m sure it all boils down to money and politics in one way or another, which sports are more universally popular and will attract the largest audience and have the strongest sponsors.  Am I the only one who wonders what happens to the athletes from countries like Russia and North Korea and China when they don't win a medal?

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching this summer’s Olympic games.  I’m not interested in every sport, and I find tallying the medals won by country annoying and counter to the true spirit of the games, but I’ve found plenty to cheer about.  Although I haven’t missed a nightly broadcast, I enjoy the daytime broadcasts of the non-marquee sports the most.  

During the dog days of summer, it’s refreshing to watch the action taking place in the cool blue water of the pool.  I’m a big fan of the aquatic part of the competition.  Although I do think they could add a little bit more fabric to the men’s swimsuits.

Week two features more of the track and field events.  Not nearly as enjoyable in my opinion.  Maybe because there are less team sports and more individual competitions?  Maybe because for me, running is not soothing to watch.  Instead of cool, blue pools, the action takes place on the hot, red track, and many runners seem to have gigantic egos and more than a touch of attitude.  

You just can’t beat Missy Franklin if you’re looking for an Olympic role model.  She smiles, she wins, and she seems so genuinely thrilled to be there.  I’m still loving the men’s water polo.  Dad stayed up late last night to watch Michael Phelps swim his last race.  My theory was if you’ve seen him win already, and with his medal count you’re bound to have seen him race by now, one last swim wasn’t worth losing sleep over. 

As I write this, I was watching men’s field hockey, Australia playing Great Britain.  Dad stuck his head in the room to tell me that water polo is on the other channel and “much more interesting than that.”  “It’s women’s water polo, isn’t it?” I asked.  “Yes, but I think a couple of them almost drowned a few minutes ago.”  Okay, the competition may be just as intense, but the men look better in their suits.  I changed the channel anyway.  He also admitted that before the water polo, he’d watched the horses jump and found it very interesting.  You never know whether you’ll like a sport until you give it a chance.

If I had to choose my favorite event so far, it would definitely be the synchronized diving.  As someone who could medal in a belly flop competition, I find divers remarkable to begin with.  When you add matching every movement to that of your partner, it goes beyond remarkable into the range of incredible.  The human mermaids, in the form of women’s synchronized swimming, are pretty remarkable too, but all that makeup is distracting.

I’ll be sorry when the Olympics are over.  Then Dad’s main topic of conversation will return to Yankee’s baseball.  I understand completely why baseball is not an Olympic sport.  

Pruning

There’s one thing for which I can always count on my father.  If there’s something growing in the backyard that I particularly like, he’s going to chop it down, pull it up, or poison it.  And then, he’s going to profess surprise when I go ballistic.  It never fails.  I have threatened to lock up every sharp object we own to prevent future butchery, of either the plants or my father.  Because if he destroys the view out my kitchen window one more time, I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.

Before picture taken in 2010.  The honeysuckle was at least twice as big this year.

There is a beautiful red honeysuckle bush planted along the back fence.  It was a glorious waterfall of red blooms, cascading down in full view of my kitchen window.  The butterflies, hummingbirds, and I all loved it.  Unfortunately, my father did not.  He pruned it to within an inch of its life, leaving not a single bloom visible from my kitchen window. 

 After picture.  There were blooms going all the way to the ground.

Mom used to say that Dad and I were going to have to learn to communicate.  So I told Dad that I was not happy with his pruning, hoping that would prevent future butchery.   Mom was wrong about the communication.  Because after the discussion began, and Dad explained his reasoning, I literally saw red, although not along my back fence.

It turns out, he butchered my honeysuckle because it was growing in the wrong place.  He suggested I search online to find somewhere locally that sold honeysuckle and we’d plant another bush in a spot where it wasn’t in the way.  When I asked him to explain how the back fence could possibly be the wrong place, he told me that the honeysuckle was growing too close to his antique cultivator.  The same cultivator that is slowly disintegrating into a jumble of rotten wood with protruding nails that are a hazard I have to contend with every time I mow the grass. 

You'll notice in the picture that the cultivator has a front wheel and handles.  It was designed to be pushed down rows in a field.  Wouldn't it have been easier to simply push the cultivator away from the honeysuckle, and preferably out of view of my kitchen window, as opposed to cutting down the honeysuckle and then proposing to go to all the trouble of digging another hole to plant a new bush somewhere else in the yard?

The honeysuckle wasn’t touching the cultivator and would only have improved the view if it had completely engulfed the rotten thing.  Instead, I’m left with a view of bare brown vines and an antique cultivator that looks as if it was abandoned along the fence to rot.  I informed Dad that I didn’t need another honeysuckle plant.  I liked the one I had right where it was.  Where I could see it out my kitchen window while I was washing the dishes.  Something he would know nothing about since he’s never washed a single dish.  I pretty much shouted the last part.  That was the end of the “discussion.” 

The bad news for Dad is that every time I look out the kitchen window and see that butchered honeysuckle, I get mad all over again.  When I mowed the grass, which takes twice as long because I have to navigate the obstacle course of things he’s planted, I got even madder.  He puts stakes around his favorite plants to make sure I don’t come too close with the lawnmower.  Yet he thinks nothing of chopping mine to pieces. 

If I bang that cultivator with the lawnmower a couple of times, he’s not going to have to worry about the honeysuckle harming it.  In the meantime, I retaliated by cooking new recipes with strange ingredients every day last week.